


For the Man Who Has Everything

by PaleGlimmer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #BottomHanniBonanza, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Dark Will Graham, Drugs, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Somnophilia, Top Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleGlimmer/pseuds/PaleGlimmer
Summary: An unexpected guest makes his way in a silent house.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 91
Collections: Bottom Hanni  Bonanza





	For the Man Who Has Everything

**Author's Note:**

> I really had fun writing this for September 2020 challenge! Hope you enjoy it too. 🖤

The man moves swiftly and silently in the semi-darkness of the first floor. A smudge of orange light coming from the empty street is enough for him to navigate the overdecorated interior of the stately brownstone without hassle. He’s been here multiple times, after all, and his last invitation happened just a few hours ago. All those times he was an expected and welcome guest while this is more of… a surprise visit. The thought makes him chuckle: the homeowner would find this so unbecoming, so rude. The intruder will make sure he does, truly.

The upper floor doesn’t prove any harder to navigate. The corridor is dark but a door ajar is rimmed by light, a beacon in the obscurity calling to him like the sirens to Odysseus, with a seductive song about deranged desires and shameful pleasures. Except that he isn’t tied up nor unwilling, on the contrary: he steps forward eagerly, with no hesitation. 

The man lays his hand against the solid wood, appreciating the natural pattern beneath his rough fingertips: everything in this house maintains its wilder nature under the appearance of refined civility. Savagery hides behind the polished surface - here for sure, but maybe everywhere, at every time. He was blind and naive before, but now he sees. He sees. In the blink of an eye, the scenario takes over in his mind, his oversensitive imagination coupled with perfect memory serving him an unstoppable, kaleidoscopic sequence of three-dimensional images: the last trembling beat of a wounded heart held in a murderer’s hands, the flow of a severed artery, the blood painting red decency and propriety. He sees the beauty of it, as his heart beats faster - what was once fear is now anticipation, the final transubstantiation of the matter of his soul.

He shakes his head, his curls flopping around his face like a portable halo of darkness, and has to bite his lower lip to stop a little nervous laughter from escaping him. He’s becoming so much like him, even his thought process is more pretentious and extravagant in his proximity. He could never escape his influence, he never stood a chance - not when the old bastard decided to play his cruel games with him. Now he’s going to make the most of this one perfect chance. He earned it.

He pushes and the door goes, rotating quietly on his hinges. He stands there for a while, on the threshold of the peaceful bedroom, absorbing the view in front of him. The nightlight is still on, allowing him to make out the profile of his helpless trophy: every line, every slope engraved in his memory from now on. He will never forget the stillness in the air before this safe space is desecrated. 

He stands and gloats some more.

His victim. His, tonight, and nobody else’s.

Maybe the target noticed some unusual tiredness after his late-night whiskey, but he still made it to the bed - always the trooper. By now the mix of drugs that the man was dosed with is in full effect. And what a nice, custom mix he designed just for this event: a splash of sleeping aid, a squeeze of hallucinogen, topped with an immobilizing agent.

The man takes off his shoes, leaving them by the door, side by side in the orderly fashion that his host would require, then strolls leisurely to the imposing bed and its lone occupant who’s lying supine, his face deprived of any expression by his manufactured torpor, smoothed by gravity and lack of consciousness. He could be described as innocent-looking by many and the intruder bristles at the thought, a flash of white teeth gleaming in a fit of uncontrollable disdain.

The bed sags as the man sits carefully on its edge. He runs his hand through the lying man’s hair: it’s soft and truly feels like silk, as preposterous as it may sound. He repeats the gesture a couple of times, with the kindness of a mother, enjoying this simple tenderness, until all of a sudden he grabs and pulls. Hard. Not a word, not a sound from the sleeping figure. His breathing still slow and regular and peaceful, unencumbered yet by the terror someone in this situation should feel. The man just lays there, immobile, defenseless, his head now askew on the pillow, a few straight gray hairs remaining in the intruder’s fist. 

This is fine, to start with.

A feeling moves through the interloper’s body, slow, hot, inevitable like lava flow working its way from the bowel of the Earth to whatever lays unwittingly outside, waiting for complete destruction. Beads of sweat bloom all over his body, his throat constricted by the adrenaline obnubilating his reasoning. He doesn’t know exactly what part of him will survive this, but he knows his soul will be twisted in an unrecognizable shape when the sun rises up the next morning, illuminating his misdeeds for everyone to see.

He throws the blankets off the big bed, uncovering the still body of his drugged victim, finding the fit figure covered by an elegant silk pajama. Burgundy red with thin vertical white stripes - because God forbid you don’t bring the veneer of respectability to bed. A thick mane of silver curly hair peeks from the plunging neckline, a hint of bestiality hidden under the smooth, elegant surface of over-civilized clothing. The beast has been hiding in plain sight under such a flimsy mask for the longest time.

The man’s hands have a mind of its own, he couldn’t stop them if he wanted (and he’s never wanted anything less in his life): they roam over the sleeper’s chest, pulling, smoothing, enjoying the contrasting textures, wiry, silky, his palms drawing circles on the body, its warmth seeping through the thin layer of clothing. The man’s nipples respond unwittingly to the stimulation, getting hard under the intruder’s ministrations, and it would be impossible to resist the temptation to slap and pinch them really hard, so he doesn’t even try to. The slapping sounds erase the silence that has lasted undisturbed until now, with no rhythm nor grace.

“Always ready to seize the moment, aren’t you, you filthy whore?” 

The words sound empty in the silent room, they seem to make the man madder as if pulled unwittingly from his guts.

The silk keeps catching on his callused hands, so he decides it’s time to get rid of it: the fine clothing is torn off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor, the sleeping man left naked as a discarded mannequin waiting to be useful again. He’s handsome in a distant, unreal way, the way fresh corpses of beautiful people may be. Unblemished and peaceful, freed from earthly desires and pettiness. A masculine, middle-aged sleeping beauty with a sizable soft cock resting against his belly who doesn’t know yet what nightmare is on its way to devour him. He’s many things in the observer’s eyes, all difficult to put into words while his mind is reeling.

The man knows the other cannot hear him nor respond so he doesn’t care to hide how much he’s affected already, the voice coming out of him rough and low, vibrating with eagerness. “I’m half hard and the party hasn’t started yet,” he adds for the benefit of no one but himself, rubbing a palm over the front of his slacks to relieve the growing tension in his crotch. 

Talking filth to himself is good but not as good as what’s going to happen. He never fully planned the details in his mind: if he learned anything from his prey, it’s the ability to improvise. And so he does.

Still fully clothed, he moves to straddle the man on the bed. His hands cannot leave the golden skin beneath him alone, fingers curved like claws, his nails painting red welts all across his chest and belly. He intends to leave more than one sign of his passage, and they all must be painful reminders of what the man couldn’t stop from happening.

He leans over, his face in the crook of the other man’s neck: he breathes in until his lungs are filled with the man’s scent - so human and familiar - then he opens his mouth and latches onto the neck, licking the flesh with his eager tongue to get the first taste and finally biting down on a shoulder. Hard enough to leave marks, to split the skin and make blood bloom on it, hard enough to leave him aching for more. He laps the blood up like the sweetest honey from the Promised Land, while his own rushes down to fill his cock to fullness. 

He has stalled enough, it’s time to deliver.

He sits back up on his haunches and quickly frees his cock, hard and leaking already - an intense effect for such small violence, he considers. He pumps it quickly in his fist, then pushes and pulls the man until he’s belly down on the mattress, offering his back to his cruelty. He wastes no time and pulls the cheeks apart, exposing the most defenseless and intimate part to the view, slowly tracing the rim with one thumb. The man knows he should feel shame or some other human feeling of the kind for this deranged situation he created, but he just wants to possess and devour and destroy. He feels humanity falling from him like wrongly sized clothes, like he’s only now emerging from the womb of Hell, fully formed in his depravity. 

He leans closer and spits on the exposed hole, once, twice. He puts two fingers deep in his own mouth (there’s blood under his nails, he tastes but cannot linger, not now) and once they are drenched in spit, he uses them to breach the man under him. It’s so easy, the body offering no resistance, it’s pathetic and disgusting. Such a big, scary man, now reduced to a pitiful plaything, to be used, marred and discarded on a whim. A burst of hysterical laughter bubbles upon the man’s lips as he revels in the indignity he’s bestowing to his quarry and all the wrong feelings twirl inside his belly, making him queasy. His fingers sink inside the man easily, pumping in and out of him with no mercy, his hand twisting at the wrist, fingers arching to better hit the sensitive spot on its way down. Not that he’s worried about the man’s enjoyment of the act he’ll have to suffer through while unconscious: it’s just an additional way to enhance his debasement, to let him know how helpless, how used he was.

He removes the hand from the man’s guts, spits in it again, and gives a couple more pumps to his cock. He can’t remember the last time he was so hard. His heart is beating so loud it’s the only thing he can hear, saliva pooling in his mouth at the anticipation, every system in his body is shaken and corrupted by blinding hunger and expectant for release. Coherent thought is no longer formed in his brain. He needs to feel, no restrain, no qualms slowing down his fury. 

He spreads apart the man’s thighs for easier access, aligning the pink, leaking head of his cock to the hole. Then he pushes in. It’s admirably effortless, like a sharp knife cutting through butter. There’s no rejection, he’s welcomed inside so easily, warmth wrapping his hardness first and then spreading to his whole body. Spit isn’t the best lubricant but with the man so relaxed in his drugged state, it will work. This is it. Wasn’t the man curious about what he could become? He will have his answers once he wakes up. 

He starts slow, not out of respect, but rather trying to manage the overwhelming sensations invading his senses. His skin is overheated, rivers of sweat drenching his clothes, every inch of him tingling with the sweetest, cruelest victory. He tries to accommodate his perceptions, to maintain some semblance of self-control, but it’s a losing battle: it’s all too much and too little and too fast and too close. His feelings cannot be contained, his skin feels brittle and overstretched already, beyond the point of breaking. He has to let go.

He screams against the silence and the void as his thrusts inside the other man become frantic. It’s the sound of dying humanity and the rise of a new species of predator. He lies over the man and bites the back of his neck as hard as he can. As his tongue gets the metal aftertaste of spilled blood, his orgasm overwhelms him, his cock jerking inside the still victim under him, spilling his seed deep into the neglected vessel of his pleasure. It’s more the jolt of an execution than a spark. It’s painful and liberating and time-altering so that it seems to never stop until it’s finally over. His sight falters, the world just a collection of blurred shadows as he tries and fails to collect himself, to put together the once human-shaped pieces that this night has scattered away.

After an unknowable amount of time and broken sights in the silence, he slips out of the man he just filled up with his seed and rolls on his back beside him, covering his face with his hands as he slowly regains a semblance of normalcy, his heart rate and his breathing leveling back to normal. As he keeps his fists pressed against his eyes, he groans, a miserable sound. He sits up and looks at the destruction he brought into this home, both proud and disheartened at what he has become. What’s next?

Lost in thought and still high on the violence he bestowed without any second thought to mercy, he undresses completely, his clothes adding up messily on the pile on the floor. He finally dares to look at the man again, really look at what he has done. The man is still, his face turned to the other side, thank God for small mercies. There are scratches on his back, bloody bites… and even if the smell of sex didn’t fill up the room, the rest that happened would be clear anyway. 

Shame hasn’t found its way back yet so he fingers inappropriately the other man again. Why not? This body belongs to him tonight. He almost bites his own lip bloody at the sensation of his fingers being sucked inside, at the squelching sounds they make when pumping in and out of the loose hole filled with his cum. He feels his blood rushing back to his cock again, and stops abruptly, more out of self-preservation than anything else.

After a few calming, deep breaths he decides to turn the man supine. It means he will have to see his face again and the thought disquiets him. The beautiful face that he knows so well is marred by drool and trails of tears. He’s briefly tempted to clean him up, to have him wake up in a more dignified manner but that would be against the spirit of the night, so he doesn’t. He’s also not surprised to find out that somehow, while enduring his abuse, the man has enjoyed an orgasm of his own, his seed making a sticky mess on the bottom sheet and his soft belly. 

“You never change,” he murmurs, fondly, shaking his head and cleaning his dirty fingers on one of the man’s muscular thighs. 

He pulls up the covers crumpled at the feet of the bed, makes a pillow of the man’s hairy chest, and falls asleep almost immediately, lulled by his guilt and a heartbeat slow and regular like the beating of wings of a sky predator.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Hannibal’s trembling fingers caress his face, waking him up gently. It’s still night outside, still quiet as if nothing terrible just happened. There’s his voice, husky and ruined, the vocal cords still suffering from the effects of the drugs. 

“Will.” 

“I’m here, darling.” 

Will comes up on his elbow, cups Hannibal’s face in his hands, and kisses him tenderly on the lips. 

“Were you really asleep all the time, Hannibal?” Will asks, moving his head back so he can stare Hannibal in the eye.

Hannibal croaks out an “almost,” and smiles minutely.

Will rolls his eyes dramatically and kisses him again. 

“I knew it, you lying bastard. Anyway, it all happened past midnight so… happy birthday, sweetheart.” 

The glint in Will’s eyes is reflected in Hannibal’s, as he answers back, with his usual poise despite the difficulty to articulate.

“You shouldn’t have.” 

Will takes his time to kiss Hannibal’s face thoroughly, licking away the salt of the tears, biting gently at his jaw. He’ll help him clean up later, give Hannibal a couple of Advil, too. Maybe. 


End file.
